CHAPTER 22

CAL FILED HIS STORY on Lynch and took a call from Buckman less than fifteen minutes later. According to Buckman, he’d received an email from an anonymous source with footage of Cal’s confrontation with Ramsey at King’s Hardware. Buckman went into a tirade, complete with yelling, cursing, and threatening. Buckman’s bluster didn’t bother Cal too much as he’d experience a far more emotional Buckman when the curmudgeon once exploded in a staff meeting over the inability to apply the Oxford comma in various articles in that day’s edition.

“Finally,” Buckman said, “I’m taking you off this story completely. You are done, Cal. I can’t believe you acted like this toward a fellow colleague. You’re lucky I didn’t fire you over this.”

Cal knew better than to concoct some excuse. Enduring a tongue lashing from his wife was sufficient. Buckman was only telling Cal what he already knew.

He hung up and let out a guttural growl. Knowing Ramsey the way he did, Cal suspected this was his doing. It was confirmed less than five minutes later when Cal received a text message from Ramsey with nothing but an emoji sticking its tongue out.

I wish that was your face so I could punch it right now, you spineless punk.

It was too late to dwell on what he should have done to get himself back on the story. Violence wasn’t the answer—and he knew it. All his justifications felt lame and contrived and desperate. He was driven by both the desire to atone for missing on the Gonzalez story as well as his dogged determination to get the truth out. But Kelly was right that he knew better, and it was nothing more than an impulsive decision to try and reassert himself in one of the most important stories in the city to come along in the past few years, even if it didn’t seem that way to anyone else.

A bank robbery that resulted in the death of one of the city’s most beloved sports stars was a shame, yet that story that didn’t have many legs. But a murder disguised as a bank robbery? The latter was the kind of story sadistic reporters dream about. And Cal fell squarely into that category. He craved stories with angles galore and legs that would carry them for miles of column space on the front page. While he felt like his ability to worm his way back into Buckman’s good graces might appear like an insurmountable challenge, he knew he’d find a way back armed with the truth of what really happened—as long as he beat Ramsey to it.

The questions of who and why gnawed at Cal as he mulled over his hypothesis that the bank robbery was all a cover for the blatant murder of Sid Westin. Rebecca, Sid’s wife, was looking more and more guilty by the moment—and perhaps she was aided by Umbert. Or maybe Umbert planned the whole thing so he could have Rebecca all to himself. At this point, Cal couldn’t be sure, but he wasn’t going to rule anything out either. And there was still the possibility that none of these scenarios were correct.

He slammed his laptop shut and headed out the door, destined for the downtown Seattle PD precinct to meet up with Kittrell.

***

WHEN CAL ENTERED the precinct, he was met by a few familiar faces—some friendly and some not so much. Cal saw the chief and nodded at him. The chief nodded back and then glanced at his coffee cup that appeared as if it had been ejected from a machine in the break room. Cal watched the chief take a sip and then glance back over in his direction.

Cal began to grow nervous, even though he had no reason to be concerned. His nerves returned when he saw Kittrell walk up to the chief, slap him on the back with a case folder, and share a laugh together.

“You ready to do this?” Kittrell asked as he neared Cal.

Cal nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The two agreed to work together on questioning Umbert. Since Cal wasn’t on the case any longer, Kittrell told him he’d ask the chief about letting him join as a special consultant. With Cal’s knowledge of all the principle suspects involved, Kittrell believed it would benefit the department to have him join in. At least that’s what Cal heard. He wondered if this whole show of partnership was nothing more than to keep an eye on The Times’ feisty reporter who often stirred up trouble for the Seattle PD. Cal decided he’d honor his word not to write about the case as long as he was working on it with Kittrell. But Cal knew the minute the heart of the story broke, he’d resign as a consultant. There was no way he was going to give this story to anyone else in the department—especially Ramsey.

They took Kittrell’s car, and the two engaged in small talk as the detective navigated Seattle’s late afternoon traffic with relative ease.

“How do you know about all these shortcuts?” Cal asked, half awed, half jealous over Kittrell’s prowess on the streets.

“GPS directions are so overrated. They send everyone down the same beaten path. Meanwhile, if you have a good sense of direction and a good idea about traffic flow patterns, it’s not difficult to maneuver around the so-called preferred routes with ease.”

“So, have you developed any alternate theories about Umbert yet?” Cal asked.

“I haven’t had time to.” Kittrell glanced over at Cal. “But at this point, do we really need to? It seems pretty open and shut to me—as long as we can gather the evidence to prove Umbert had something to do with it.”

“That might not be so easy.”

“Well, you might be right.”

Cal eyed the detective cautiously. “What are you not telling me?”

He sighed. “The getaway van used by the robbers was in Sid Westin’s name.”

“Come again?”

“I think you heard me loud and clear.”

“Yeah, but I don’t believe it. How is that even possible?”

“Rebecca claims she didn’t even know her husband owned a van.”

“But you’ve verified that he did?”

Kittrell nodded. “Apparently it was a big secret. There were a few other people who knew about it. We tracked down the guy Sid bought the van from just to make sure it was indeed Sid—and the seller confirmed it was.”

“So you think Rebecca found out about the van and used it to frame him?”

“Maybe. I think we need to catch Umbert off guard first and get a bead on him before we start firming up theories.”

A few minutes later, they pulled into the parking garage where Umbert’s office was located. The sign for Umbert & Associates was both bold and elegant, the signature name highlighting the top of the twelve-story office building and sending the message Umbert obviously intended to send with his business: rich and powerful.

“I don’t understand why these sports agents spend so much money on their office space,” Kittrell wondered aloud. “They’re just negotiating contracts for professional athletes; it’s not like they need all this.”

“Would you want to hire an agent who worked out of his garage?” Cal asked as they entered the lobby.

“Great things have come out of garages over the years.”

“But they don’t stay there.”

They stepped onto the elevator and began ascending to the top floor.

Kittrell shrugged. “To each his own, I guess. If I was collecting ten percent of these players’ monster contracts, I’d still work out of my garage. It’d be a posh garage, mind you. But I wouldn’t leave the house.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not an agent then.”

The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open, revealing the ritzy office environment of Umbert’s business. Plush leather couches and chairs, Italian marbled floors, multiple flat screen HD televisions inset into oak wood panels, a small fountain covered with coins on the bottom—not pennies, but golden one dollar coins.

The duo took in the scene for a moment before locating the front desk and heading toward it.

“You think your garage would look like this?” Cal whispered.

Kittrell shook his head. “Nope. Never like this—even if I was an agent.”

Cal smiled as he approached the svelte young woman with blonde hair who returned his smile before speaking.

“What can I help you gentlemen with today?” she asked.

“I’m Detective Kittrell, and this is my special consultant, Cal Murphy. We were hoping to speak with Mr. Umbert today about an ongoing investigation.”

Her face fell. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Umbert isn’t in the office right now.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back? We can wait.”

“You’ll be waiting a while. He’s in London this week on business.”

“What’s he doing in London?” Cal said.

She tilted her head to one side. “Apparently another young soccer player wants to play for Seattle FC, and he’s going to meet with him. It was all very last minute.”

“Do you know when he’s scheduled to return?” Kittrell asked.

“I’m not sure. He asked me to purchase him an open-ended ticket. I can let him know that you stopped by when he calls to check in, if you like.”

Kittrell held up his hand. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your time.”

They turned away from the desk and headed toward the elevator. Once inside, they waited until the doors closed until either of them spoke.

“He leaves the country now,” Kittrell said. “How convenient.”

“No way this was a coincidence.”